1

The sun rose early the next day, shining through the undressed windows of apartment #157. She was currently somewhere between consciousness and sleep, floating in a half recognized world of shapes and colors. There was a sound in the background, a very faint ringing, as though a phone was sounding. A phone...



She jumped up quickly, smacking her toe on the footboard. She stumbled her way to the telephone, cursing her sore extremity and hoping that it wasn't her boss. "What?"



"Hey, Dickie?" Thank God. It was the voice of a friend. "You sound pretty pissed off, what's up?"



"Aw, nothing Kat. It's that goddamn dream again. I was just hoping you weren't my boss. I skipped work last Saturday because of a migraine, and he hasn't called yet." She sighed.



"Jeez, Dick, you've been there for two years. I doubt he'd fire you for just skipping once." There was a pause. "But if he does, there's always that other job you keep talking about. The one at that night club."



Dickie sighed. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, but it's just the fact that at this moment in time, I have a stable income and a guaranteed paycheck, and I'd like to keep it that way. Now, Kat, it's nine in the morning. Why did you call?"



Kat began to speak, her voice becoming more and more animated. "You know that guy at the record shop? Well, he finally asked me out for Friday. The only problem is that he has a friend that is coming."

"So you want to know if I'll come on a double date with you and Mr. Record shop."

"Yes! You can read my mind!"

"Um, Kat? Guys like to pull this shit all the time," Dickie said, her voice cynical.

"Oh." Another pause. "But will you come? Please?"

Dickie adjusted the phone so she was holding it between her shoulder and her cheek. "Kat, you know how much I hate men, relationships, and dates in general."

"Aw, Dickie, please? I told him you would. And if he's an ass, you can still get dinner and a movie out of it," Kat wheedled.

"Okay, fine," Dickie agreed as she examined her nails.

"Yeah, Dickie!" Kat was squealing like a cheerleader at a pep rally. "I knew you'd say yes!"

"What are friends for," Dickie said, deadpan. "I'm calling my boss. Talk to you later, bye." She hung up the phone and plunked herself down on a barstool. Dammit dammit dammit. Why did she always allow her friends to talk her into dates with dumb jocks who just wanted a quick lay rather than to get to know her as a person? She kept thinking things would be different, but she always found nothing had changed. Sometimes she would get into a nice relationship with a seemingly caring person, but after a few months of bliss she would discover "Mr. Right" was just yet another figment of Mr. Wrong.

Oh well, it's over, I agreed to it, she thought as she picked up the telephone again. This time, she dialed her boss and waited for him to pick up.

"Hello, you've reached Jeff Daniel's. I'm not able to come to the phone right now, so please leave your name and number, and if you're lucky then I'll call you back." The machine beeped and Dickie began to talk.

"Hey, Jeff, it's Dickie. I'm just calling to give you a pitiful excuse why I wasn't at work on Saturday, so either call me back, or don't, your choice." She hung up the phone, and set it down on the cabinet. The good thing about Jeff was his leniency. He treated his employees as though they were equal, not underlings. He allowed them to call him Jeff, and as long as you didn't miss too many days he let you take sick leaves when everyone knew you weren't really ill. He was like a big brother to some of the younger workers and helped them get through finals in history or government. He should have been a teacher, Dickie thought. Not working at a coffee shop.

And where should she be? The answer came to her quickly: dead. She had tried at least four times, deliberately putting herself into the way of destruction, but somehow she always managed to survive. Whether it was through sheer will or a supernatural protector, she didn't know. Horrible things had happened to her; terrible dealings had taken place but she always managed to persevere. Was it human strength? Or something else?

Dickie stood up off her perch and walked around the bar. It was early, and she was hungry. Although there was little to eat in her pantry, she managed to find an oatmeal packet hiding in the back behind the pasta. I really need to go shopping. Dickie heated the water and poured it over her breakfast, stirring mechanically. The wave of tiredness hit her immediately. The long nights of not sleeping were finally getting to her. As she sank to the ground she began to cry. Why did life have to be so cruel? What was haunting her to the extent she couldn't sleep? And above all, why was she feeling remorse now for her past sins, three years after the act happened? She wasn't crazy!

Her inner tirade was interrupted by the sound of the phone. Dickie scrambled up from the ground and hurried to answer it before it hit the fourth ring. It was a little game she played with herself, trying to see if she could get the phone before the answering machine picked up. "Hello?"

It was her boss. "Hello, Dickie. This is Jeff. I'm ready for your pitiful excuse."

"I had a migraine. I would have loved to come in, but you know how sometimes when you stand up too fast your head hurts and you want to vomit?" Jeff made a little noise of recognition. "Well, I was feeling that for seven hours."

Dickie heard some rustling of papers as Jeff began. "I'll give you that. This is the first time you've skipped work without a notice in two years, so I think I can cut you some slack. I've scheduled you today at four- thirty until closing at midnight, so you can make up your hours. Does that float your boat?"

"Yeah, that works. Hey Jeff, do I have anything scheduled for Friday night?" Dickie asked.

"No, I don't have anything," answered Jeff. "Why?"

"Well, Kat asked me out on a double date with some guy friends. I don't really know, she likes to pull shit like that."

Jeff let out a hearty laugh. "Tell her as long as she keeps buying our lattes, she can do whatever the hell she wants."

Dickie smiled. "I'll make sure to tell her that. Bye Jeff, and thanks." She hung up the phone with a flourish and checked the clock on the microwave. It read 9:16 A.M. If she could, she would have tried to sleep, but since that was impossible, she decided to continue on with her breakfast. She carried her oatmeal to the bar and sat down on a stool. She took the TV remote from its designated place next to the phone and clicked on her television. Just in time for the morning news. For some odd reason, she enjoyed hearing the sordid details of the night's happenings and of overseas crisis.' Maybe I am crazy, Dickie thought as she shoveled oatmeal into her mouth.

"...Another man was murdered last night, his disemboweled body found behind the 24-7 store near Pine. This is the seventh murder this month, all using similar techniques. The killer or killers are skilled, as they have never left behind any evidence and no credible witnesses have come forward. If you have any information as to the murder of this man, please contact the police or call our news station at (713) 253-7962. All tips will be investigated."

The drone of the news seemed to blend into the background as Dickie contemplated the latest murder. She didn't think that it was all the same person, after all, the murders happened in such swift succession. Any murderer, not even the most deranged serial killer would risk killing seven people in three months. It also seemed the police investigating the case were inept. No evidence? That hardly seemed possible. All killers, no matter how skilled, always left some trace of fibers, or semen, or something. It wasn't as if they were killed by ghosts. She had heard several conjectures: that it was a serial killer, that it could be a gang of murderers all working together, or that it was one person and the police were just dumb. Dickie favored the second speculation. It seemed much more, well, plausible than anything else, even though guess number three could work too. A serial killer seemed to fall a bit off the mark, but in this day and age, anything was possible.

She had long finished her breakfast, and now placed the bowl in the sink. She'd do the dishes later. At this moment in time, she wanted nothing more than to restock her supplies and buy a book she had been reading at the bookstore for quite some time now. Dickie stalked into her room and grabbed some clothes out of an open drawer. Blue shirt she found at a Salvation Army, cutoff jeans, and her trusty black Converse would satisfy her for a quick drive. She tossed on her clothes and pulled her hair back rather haphazardly. I need to re-dye it. The color is coming out. She enjoyed her current color, a combination of her natural brown and a purplish dye. In the right light her head seemed to radiate violet, causing second looks in her direction. She had also had more than a few snide comments on it. She brushed her teeth quickly, popped in a piece of cherry bubblegum, grabbed her car keys and headed out the door. The corridor leading to her apartment smelled musty, like it hadn't been cleaned in a long time. Judging by the upkeep of the building as a whole, it didn't have a chance of being cleaned in the next ten years. She kept her own apartment in pretty good shape, scrubbing it spotless one day a month with minor touchups here and there. The only messy part of the apartment was the tiny area of space she has sanctioned off in the bedroom. That was her "office," the place where she wrote her poetry, played her guitar, and occasionally painted. That area of the house was where her muse ran free, and she made sure the inspiration wouldn't leave by keeping all sorts of cluttered figurines and icons in the corner. She had about five Buddhas, one Shiva, two Virgin Marys, Jesus Christ on the cross, a star of David, a copy of the Qur'an, and various antique sculptures from art dealers around the city. Even though she didn't smoke out of it, she had a five foot tall bong in one corner, just for show. I mean, who else has a five foot bong? she thought.

She twirled her car keys around her finger as she stepped outside. The first thing to hit her was the sunlight. She growled a little and sprinted to her car. The heat didn't bother her as much as the sun. The heat wasn't the problem; she lived in San Francisco for God's sake. The wind kept her cool, but today it was one of the rare days when the sun was shining and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. She hated the sun, as anyone could tell from her pale, sickly skin. Ever since she had been small her body had an extreme aversion to light. She could never go to the beach, in fact, if she was in direct sunlight for more than three hours, large blisters would appear on her skin, with or without the use of sunscreen. She lived with the windows shut and the lights turned off, retreating every day into her world of dark seclusion. If she had to go out in the sun, she either brought a long sleeved shirt or heavy duty sunscreen. She needed to find a parasol, but never had the time. There was no time for anything anymore. Attempt to sleep, work, eat, and repeat the same thing over again.

She had reached her car, and put the key into the lock. I need a new car, she thought with a sigh. The current model was a 1988 gray Camry stained with various liquids on the seats and the ever present smell of coffee and old cigarettes. Thank God it wasn't stale fast food! As she climbed into the car she reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a battered pack of Marlboro Reds. She lit one, started the car, and rolled down the window in what seemed to be one movement. She had done it a million times, considering she had been smoking since the tender age of fourteen, and driving since fifteen. A hardship license had seen to that. She pulled out of the parking lot and onto a busy road. She hit the gas, coasting up to 45 miles per hour easily. Even though the car was fourteen years old, it still ran perfectly. She was waiting to completely wear it out before buying a new one. She didn't like expenditures, it was more cash for other habits down the drain. To put it simply, almost all her money went to her drug purchases of cocaine and marijuana. It had merely begun as self medication for mild depression, but scaled into a full time habit. She knew it was criminal, and also dumb, but there were times that she felt if she didn't have it, she would go insane. But wasn't that what she was?

She pushed a tape into the tape player, and the sound of music began to blare out the speakers. Today's selection had been FEAR, although she would have gone for something with more of a rhythm. She had always enjoyed coordinating her music with her moods as to further buoy her up. It was almost a ritual to flip through CDs or tapes to find the music of the day. Dickie turned on her signal, turning off the main road onto a narrow side street. The supermarket was close now. In fact, it loomed in the distance like a shrine to food, a twenty four hour smorgasbord of gluttony. She hit the gas again, shooting up to 55, and braking suddenly as a minivan in front of her slowed down. Damn soccer moms. If there was one thing she hated more than high school, it was soccer moms. They don't own the fucking road. Dickie continued muttering to herself and turned into the parking lot of Foodville. It was crowded today, and it took her a good fifteen minutes just to find a parking spot. It was fairly close, thank God, so the sun wouldn't affect her walk to the store. She got out, locked her door, and grabbed a shopping cart from a nearby holding rack. She knew what she desired, there was no need for a list. A blast of cold air hit her in the face as the automatic doors slid back to reveal a shining array of foodstuffs. Dickie wrinkled her nose; the smell of cleaner was harsh to her.

She began in the cereal aisle, taking two boxes of Raisin Bran and three cans of Quaker Instant Oatmeal off the shelf. She also purchased milk, apple juice, a few bags of Reeses, a twelve-pack of Cherry Fiz-Whiz, two pounds of avocados, and a fresh baguette. Much to her growing dismay, she found her affinity for French food was crippling her pocketbook. At the cashier line, she bought a Grape Brainfreezy on an impulse, paid the total with a debit card and pushed back the urge to quit the state. As she fought the soccer moms clogging the road she sighed. Can I ever find something new? *

The bookstore was less crowded. It seemed like very few people of her age group read anymore; that rare pleasure seemed to be confined to the older generation and small children. She was the only person she knew who relished reading. Even though Kat read from time to time, it just wasn't the same. A book was Dickie's sublime companion, and without it she felt lost. She began to comb the poetry section, scanning the G's for Allen Ginsberg, her favorite beat poet. He reeked of urban sophistication; something rarely found anymore. Just her luck. The booksellers were out.

She continued to scan the poetry, but moved on when nothing struck her fancy. Dickie meandered her way into histories, and then biographies. After about fifteen minutes of deliberation and flipping pages back and forth, she selected Marilyn Monroe over Dee Dee Ramone and turned to go to the counter.

Something stopped her in her tracks. There, right before her, was one of the most gorgeous people she had ever seen in her life. He was contemplating Voltaire's Candide, across the rows, rubbing his chin with an unaffected air. He seemed to have no idea she was watching him, until he flicked his eyes upwards and caught her stare. He seemed immediately offended. "What?" he muttered to her.

Dickie was startled. "Umm...nothing."

"Do you think it's all right to stare at strangers? Or are you just stupid like the rest of them?"

"Hey, Mister," Dickie began. "Maybe some people stare because they're interested. Not all people stare because you look funny. If you haven't noticed, I get a lot of stares too." She stood akimbo, waiting for the next salvo of words.

All he said was, "Oh." The he was silent.

Dickie decided it was probably time to move on. She was strangely entranced by this territorial hermit, but after that ordeal, she concluded her welcome was worn out. She managed a brief "It was nice talking to you," and then scurried up the counter with her purchase. She made sure to put her order in for Ginsburg's Howl.

As she climbed into her car with the book, she couldn't help thinking about that young man's eyes. They were a piercing color, a light green if you may, and it seemed almost as if he was trying to peer into her mind's workings. Creepy. She smiled, crossed her fingers, and hoped she would run into him again.